


The Dragon and the Halla

by Arcadian90



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:16:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28797486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcadian90/pseuds/Arcadian90
Summary: The continuing adventures of Magister Pavus and Inquisitor Lavellan, now married and living in Minrathous.
Relationships: Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 12
Kudos: 33





	1. Victory

Seth stands in front of the mirror, giving himself one last look. He’s impeccable, of course. Dorian has seen to that. The haircut, the outfit – all of it carefully curated to play to the elf’s considerable strengths. Seth has always looked good in blue, but this particular shade of cobalt is perfectly stunning on him, offsetting his silver hair and bringing out the startling aquamarine of his eyes. The silver is picked up in the embroidery on his tunic and the stitching on his black leather gloves, the latter designed with flared forearms that fit perfectly over the elf’s artificial hand. It’s an immaculate ensemble. Now if he can just stop fidgeting with it…

“There’s no need to be nervous,” Dorian tells him.

This is a lie. There is every reason to be nervous and Seth knows it. Tonight is to be his introduction to the glitterati of Tevinter society. On enemy ground, no less: a soiree at the estate of one Magister Grotius Philion, whose Priori faction has been at odds with the Lucerni over virtually every piece of legislation tabled in the Magisterium for the past two years. Philion _loathes_ Dorian – a feeling that would be mutual if Dorian could be bothered to give the old goat a second thought. Which is of course why he invited “Magister Pavus and Guest” to this little get-together. It’s a gauntlet thrown. He’s daring Dorian to cause a scandal, which… challenge accepted, _obviously_.

Still, not exactly the terms Dorian would have chosen for introducing his new husband to the world. He’d have preferred to host something at their estate, or least let Mae do it. A soft open, as it were. But Seth was having none of it. _It’ll be taken for weakness_ , he said – demonstrating an eerily keen understanding of Tevinter culture for a man who’s been living in the Imperium for all of a month. _We need to show them we’re not afraid and not ashamed. And we’ll only get one chance._

From that perspective, at least, tonight’s festivities will be ideal. A chance to show Minrathous society that Magister Pavus and his husband fully expect to be welcomed with open arms – even if there’s a knife tucked up those silken sleeves. Which of course there will be, figuratively and occasionally literally.

Seth has been inspecting himself for a full five minutes now, a record even Dorian would be hard pressed to break. “Maker’s breath, _amatus_. You will be the most beautiful creature in the room and you know it. Can we move this along?”

“Is that what you think I’m worried about?” Seth snorts softly. Then he flicks his wrist, revealing the flashing point of a blade before tucking it away again. “I just want to make sure none of the weapons I’m carrying are visible.”

Dorian frowns. “Exactly how many weapons _are_ you carrying?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“No. Far more amusing to let me discover them on my own, _later_.” Dorian gives him a wicked little smile. “In the meantime, the carriage is waiting.”

Fifteen minutes later – the carriage was mostly for show – they’re being escorted up a flight of steps into a verdant courtyard dancing with magical light. Quite literally: tiny flecks of golden light swarm like fireflies in the air, swirling just a few feet above the guests. Spirits, probably, though it could be a cantrip of some kind. Either way, the effect is quite spectacular, and Dorian wonders how a dry old nug fart like Philion came up with the idea.

“Darling!” calls a familiar voice, and Maevaris flits over, looking radiant in a spilly confection of emerald satin. “Or should I say darlings,” she adds, air kissing each of them in turn. “You look brilliant, both of you. Especially you, Inquisitor. You’ll be the belle of the ball, I promise you.”

Seth smiles, looking perfectly serene. If it’s a mask, it’s a very good one – but then, Inquisitor Lavellan is no stranger to these sorts of performances. “Quite a party, from the look of it,” the elf says, his gaze travelling over the glittering assembly. “I didn’t think anything could outdo the Winter Palace, but those lights… How is it done?”

Mae’s expression curdles. “Theft, of course. That”—she points irritably at the swirling pinpricks of light—“is _my_ spell.”

Dorian laughs. “Of course it is. I ought to have known.”

Mae finds it considerably less amusing. “The wrinkled old balls on him,” she mutters, “stealing someone else’s work…” Then she makes a sharply dismissive gesture, and her expression clears. “Well, we’ll soon have our revenge, won’t we? Here’s the seneschal. Ready for battle, gentlemen?” Looping one arm through Dorian’s and the other through Seth’s, she steers them over to the seneschal and whispers in his ear.

The man is too well trained to react; he just nods crisply and turns toward the assembly. “Magister Pavus,” he announces, “and Inquisitor Lavellan.”

Silence drops like a curtain. Every head in the courtyard turns as if pulled on a string, and for just a _tiny_ second, Dorian is terrified. _This is mad_ , he thinks. _Even for you. Bringing a Dalish to a party in Minrathous? You’ve thrown your halla to the wolves._

But his forest creature still looks perfectly serene. He touches Dorian’s arm, discreetly maneuvering him so that his back is to the crowd – and then he laughs, as though Dorian has just said something terribly witty. “Breathe, _vhen’an_ ,” he murmurs, still smiling. “It’s going to be fine, I promise.”

The guests, meanwhile, don’t seem to know quite how to react. There are a few incredulous laughs, and whispers behind gloved hands. But most just look at one another, as if waiting for someone of social power to determine which way the thing will break.

And then the most extraordinary thing happens.

“Inquisitor,” says a familiar voice – one Dorian was not expecting to hear. Aquinea Pavus glides over, resplendent in midnight blue silk with long silver gloves, and she takes Seth’s hands, kissing him on each cheek. “Look at you. My son usually fancies himself the finest specimen in the room, but I daresay my son-in-law will outshine him forever more.”

Which is perfect, really. For while Lady Pavus is unmistakably in the act of very publicly placing her seal of approval on her son’s shocking marriage, she couldn’t quite manage it without a swipe at Dorian in the process.

“Lovely to see you as always, Mother,” Dorian says, his sour tone quite convincingly masking the surge of gratitude in his breast. The moment Aquinea’s lips touched Seth’s cheek, it was as if the ice in the room melted. For Lady Pavus is a woman of tremendous social power indeed. A revered matriarch of Tevinter society, the sort of figure lesser mortals set their compasses by, lest they find themselves lost in the social hinterlands. Only the bravest would dare cross her now – at least publicly.

Which means Grotius Philion now has little choice but to play the gracious host, his trap having failed to spring. He appears before them as if by magic, sweeping into a courtly bow. “Inquisitor Lavellan. You honour me.” His gaze flicks to Dorian. “And Magister Pavus, of course.”

“There you are, Grotius,” Aquinea says, snapping open a silver fan and fluttering it. “I was beginning to wonder if you were hiding in the shrubbery.”

“Lady Pavus.” Philion smiles thinly. “It is clear how Magister Pavus came by that _delightfully_ sharp tongue of his.”

“It is how he came by all of his better traits,” Aquinea declares before sauntering off.

Philion, too, beats a hasty retreat. And now there are three.

“I’m not sure what just happened,” Seth says.

“Aquinea has placed you under her protection,” Mae explains, looping her arm through Seth’s once more. “Now society has a choice. Embrace you or risk being cut. Most will take the easier route, which means you can brace yourself for an evening of fawning, Inquisitor.”

Anyone else might have been pleased, but Seth actually sighs at that. “I’m grateful, though I confess I’ve had enough fawning for a lifetime.”

“Alas, you poor creature,” Dorian says.

“You would be wise to reap the harvest while you can, darling,” Mae advises Dorian with an arch of her eyebrow. “There are deals to be done here. Go, mingle. I will entertain your better half.” _And keep an eye on him_ , her gaze adds silently, for which Dorian is grateful.

The evening progresses smoothly after that. It is, in fact, rather a smashing success. Dorian flits about the garden like a butterfly, collecting tokens of political goodwill that he fully intends to cash at the earliest opportunity. Seth, meanwhile, is a fascinating novelty; even the most prominent names in attendance are eager to inspect the legend up close, if only to gossip about him later. Mae has her hands full providing introductions and diplomatically divesting Seth of anyone who tries to monopolize his time. Lady Montilyet would have thoroughly approved.

Only once does Dorian almost lose his temper, and that late in the evening, when stragglers begin to appear who were not present for the seneschal’s introduction or Lady Pavus’s benediction. “Is that one yours?” a young woman murmurs conspiratorially to Dorian, inspecting Seth wolfishly from afar. “He’s very pretty.”

“He is,” Dorian says, half annoyed and half curious to see where it will go.

“Is he any good?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You are having him, yes? He certainly looks too well-kept for a house boy.” She continues her inspection, looking Seth up and down like a horse she’s considering buying. “Besides, why bring him here except to show him off? Unless you’re trying to tempt the rest of us.” She smiles coyly at Dorian. “Well, are you? Because if you’re willing to share…”

Dorian draws a deep breath. In this company, even the slightest quiver in the Veil will draw attention, and it would be blood in the water to these sharks. A weakness they could exploit. And so, pasting on the silken smile that is his birthright, Dorian says, “He is _extremely_ good, actually. But I’m afraid you’re just not his type.”

She laughs incredulously. “What does that matter? Or do slaves decide for themselves now?”

Before Dorian can answer, Mae appears at his side, a glass of brandy in each hand. “There you are, darling. Your husband is getting lonely.”

The young woman blinks.

“Is he?” Dorian asks airily, accepting a glass. “He looks to be quite surrounded. I’m surprised you left him alone in that horde, frankly.”

“I daresay the Inquisitor can take care of himself.”

The young woman blanches. “The…” she whispers.

“Inquisitor,” Dorian purrs, looking her right in the eye.

The woman swallows hard. “Will you excuse me? I think I should…”

“Yes, I expect you should,” Dorian says, his smile curving like a blade.

The retreat is far from glorious. She actually trips on the hem of her gown in her haste to be away from what she must assume will be an imminent roasting. Not that Dorian hadn’t considered it, but the smell of burnt flesh is entirely off-putting when one is trying to enjoy a nice brandy.

Mae and Dorian sip their drinks and watch Seth, who seems to be managing perfectly well on his own. “A triumph,” Mae declares.

“Except for the part about the love of my life being mistaken for some bed boy to be passed around like a plate of hors d’oeuvres.”

“Oh, pooh. If you make it all the way through your first party with only one of those, I say you’ve done well.”

“Remarkably so, actually,” Dorian admits, taking another sip of brandy.

Seth’s eyes meet his from across the room, and he smiles. And just like that, a weight Dorian has been carrying for… well, years, frankly… evaporates. They can do this. _Really_ do this.

“You know something, Mae? I believe we can aspire to more than just surviving this. I think maybe we can change some minds, Seth and I. With your help, of course.”

She smiles. “Slow down, Magister Pavus. One victory at a time.”

“Sensible advice. But if you don’t mind, I’m going to savour this one.”

“And so you should, darling. To victory.” Mae raises her glass.

 _And the battles to come_ , Dorian adds silently, and he takes a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait, huh? ANOTHER fic, when I'm still working on The Spaces After? Well, yes. I wanted to throw in some chapters that take place after In Setheneras, and the timelines in Spaces are already jumping around enough as it is. So now we have this fic, which will basically be Spaces III, but set in 9:49 Dragon.
> 
> Needless to say, if you haven't read Spaces I or II, or In Setheneras, this will be spoilery AF. Sorry.


	2. Afterparty

It’s nearly dawn by the time Dorian and Seth get back to the estate. Neither of them is entirely sober, but they’re not completely smashed, either, which is something of a miracle considering how the rest of the evening unfolded. Indeed, the entire night was something of a miracle, starting with Lady Pavus’s public benediction of her son’s scandalous marriage and culminating in Seth being the undisputed belle of the ball. Philion might as well have been a servant for all the attention he was paid by his guests, and while on the one hand this was perfectly _delicious_ , it also became rather tedious as the evening wore on. So when Maevaris whispered that they ought to decamp elsewhere – _leave them wanting more_ , was her sage advice – Seth was only too ready to agree. Dorian fully intended to take him home, only to have Seth announce that he and Mae had made other plans. Which is when the evening became _truly_ interesting.

“Was that what they call a house of ill repute?” Seth inquires as they descend from the carriage.

“No, no. That was a den of iniquity _._ ”

“What’s the difference?”

“The amount of sex, chiefly.”

“There seemed to be quite a lot of sex,” Seth points out.

This is true. There were also poetry readings, erotic paintings, hallucinogenic magic, and an interpretative dance performance that Mae had succinctly dubbed “the fuck pile.” Ah, Minrathous.

The usual welcome committee awaits them in the courtyard. This consists of a very excited Maggie and a considerably less enthusiastic Austus. Indeed, the seneschal looks downright resentful, handing over a stack of expensive stationery with a sour expression. “Your correspondence, my lords.”

Dorian tuts as he accepts the letters. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Most assuredly.”

“Well, look on the bright side. At your age, it’ll be nothing but sleep soon. Of the permanent variety.”

“I very much look forward to that, my lord,” Austus says with a bow, and he withdraws.

Seth watches him go with a grin. “The champion and still undefeated. You’re never going to outduel him, you know.”

“I let him win,” Dorian says airily. “It’s good for his blood pressure.” He frowns as he flips through the letters. Virtually every one bears an urgency cantrip, a subtle compulsion spell that nags at the bearer until the letter is opened. No wonder Austus was cranky. He couldn’t have gone to sleep if he tried. “Maker’s breath. You really have conquered Minrathous society, Inquisitor.”

Seth’s brow creases. “What do you mean?”

“These are invitations. A baker’s dozen of them, all for next week. Enchanted with urgency cantrips, no less. The epistolary equivalent of elbowing your way to the front of the line.”

Seth only looks more puzzled now. “I don’t understand. My presence here was only disclosed last night. How can there already be invitations?”

“It would appear the cream of Minrathous society is impatient to curry your favour.” Dorian can’t decide if he’s annoyed or pleased by this. In the nearly five years he’s lived here, virtually all his social invitations have come from Maevaris’s circle. Seth has been here for all of five minutes and already his dance card is oversubscribed.

Seth considers the pile of letters with a tilt of his head. “Some of these people want to kill me, surely?”

“Of course,” Dorian says with an impatient wave. “But that’s not the point.”

“It’s… not?”

“This is Minrathous. If a man turned down every invitation he suspected of being a trap he’d never get out at…” Dorian pauses, distracted by one of the letters in his hand. He hadn’t noticed it before, since unlike the others it bears no urgency cantrip. Neither does it bear a family seal – just a humble blob of red wax. It’s addressed to Seth alone, which makes him even more wary.

“Something wrong?”

“This letter,” Dorian says, setting the others aside. He passes a hand over it, but feels no enchantment. It’s safe to open. Probably.

“Let me see that.” There’s an edge to Seth’s tone now. His Inquisitor voice. Dorian hands the letter over instinctively. Blue-green eyes scan the paper, and Seth’s mouth presses into a thin line.

“You recognize the handwriting?”

“Don’t you?” Before Dorian can stop him, Seth thumbs the letter open. The paper is translucent enough to make out the signature at the bottom, and Dorian feels the blood drain from his face.

“ _Kaffas_ ,” he hisses, shifting so he can read over his husband’s shoulder.

_Inquisitor,_

_My belated congratulations on your recent nuptials. For what it is worth, you deserve whatever happiness you can find in this life, while time remains. Though Dorian and I have had our differences, I believe he means well, and your continued devotion to each other through your many challenges is admirable. I wish you both the very best._

_It has come to my attention that you have relocated permanently to Minrathous. It is my fervent hope that this signals nothing more than a desire to be close to your husband. If that is not the case – if your presence in the Imperium signifies an intention to redouble your efforts to find me – I beg you to reconsider. Whatever you may think of me now, Inquisitor, you still have my greatest respect, and I consider you a friend. I have no wish for our paths to be in collision. But make no mistake: if a collision is to occur, I will do what I must. There is too much at stake to allow my personal feelings to interfere._

_Nothing is inevitable, Inquisitor. I have always admired your principles and your commitment to upholding them, but you have done your part for the people of Thedas. Let the mantle pass to another and enjoy the retirement you have surely earned._

_In hope and respect,_

_S._

Seth sighs. “As death threats go, it’s quite polite.”

Dorian doesn’t reply straightaway. He’s too busy picturing himself strangling the hairless hobo with his bare hands. “Dorian means well?” he splutters eventually.

His husband gives him a wry look. “That’s the part you’re stuck on?”

“ _I consider you a friend?_ Are you meant to rejoice? Why, _thank you_ , Solas. That means _so much_ to me, Solas.”

Seth isn’t really listening to him, which is just as well. He narrows his eyes, staring thoughtfully into nothingness. “I haven’t heard a word from Solas in years. If he’s writing to me now, it means he’s worried. Which means there’s something here he doesn’t want me to find.”

Dorian sighs. “And you intend to find it, I suppose?”

“Eventually.” Seth shrugs, looking awfully relaxed for a man whose life has just been threatened by the Dread Wolf. “Right now, all I want is a little sleep.”

“Bed, yes. Sleep…” Dorian eyes him wolfishly. “Not so much.”

“Really?” Seth says, allowing himself to be herded toward to the stairs. “It’s almost dawn.”

“Do you know the best part about being married to the belle of the ball? Knowing that you’re the one who gets to unwrap him when he gets home. To the victor the spoils, Inquisitor.”

He starts unwrapping immediately, and by the time they reach their bedchamber, Seth is half unbuttoned and walking backwards, letting Dorian steal a few kisses in advance. “Do you think,” he whispers between kisses, “we have a… spy… in the house?”

“If so, I hope the Dread Wolf receives an accurate report of our reaction to his threats. _The Inquisitor read the letter, shrugged, and promptly headed upstairs for a shag._ ”

Seth smiles. “In that case,” he says, fingers working at Dorian’s laces, “we’d better put on a good show.”


	3. Therapy

Dorian wakes to sounds of distress. Seth is tossing and turning in the bed beside him, skin damp, breath ragged. His hand twitches at his side; Dorian recognizes the subtle, sharp motion of a blade being drawn across a throat. “No,” Seth murmurs. “ _No!_ ”

“ _Amatus._ ” Dorian brushes the damp silver hair back from Seth’s forehead. “ _Shh._ You’re dreaming, my love.”

Seth’s features grow pinched, whether with pain or fear, Dorian can’t tell. He moans quietly. “No,” he says again. “ _Sathan, no. ’Ma vhen’an, ar gen’av’ahnan…_ ”

_Please, no. My love, I beg you…_

Goodness. This dream does not sound at _all_ pleasant. “ _Ir amahn_ ,” Dorian says gently. _I’m here._ He touches Seth’s shoulder – and sucks in a breath as Seth starts up like a scalded cat, pinning Dorian down and straddling him, hand pressed to Dorian’s throat. An empty hand, thank the Maker, or Dorian would be dead by now. “Seth,” he says with a calmness belying the hammering of his pulse. “Wake up.”

Seth doesn’t react straightaway, and Dorian is transported viscerally to another time, another place, when the man he loved nearly murdered him in the Deep Roads.

_A blade flashes, cold metal pressed against his throat. The figure crouched on top of him is half animal, his pupils dilated like a predator’s. “Seth,” he whispers._

_There’s no recognition in those feral eyes. The blade presses harder, threatening to break the skin. Dorian is afraid even to breathe. “Amatus…”_

“ _Amatus_ ,” he says now, firmly. “Much as I enjoy this particular position, I’ve never been excited about snuff role play.”

Seth blinks, and for a second he just stares. Then he draws a shuddering breath and presses a hard kiss to Dorian’s mouth, kissing him over and over in a way that leaves little doubt what he was just dreaming about. “I killed you,” he whispers, as though Dorian needs to be told. “We were in the Deep Roads and—”

“I know. You had me reliving the experience as well.” His hand drifts unconsciously to his throat.

Seth’s eyes are full of anguish. “I’m sorry,” he says, fingertips ghosting across Dorian’s face, as if he’s afraid of breaking him. “I’m so sorry, _vhen’an_.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t control what you dream.”

“Even after I…” He swallows hard. “I couldn’t tell if you were real, or… And then you were alive again, and I was sure you must be a demon, and…” He shudders violently.

“And here we are.” Dorian sighs. “It’s getting worse, _amatus_. This is the third time this week. Perhaps we ought to consider seeing a healer.”

“So they can give me a sleeping draught that would knock out a druffalo? Thank you, no.” Seth climbs off him and heads for the washing room.

Dorian understands his reluctance, but still. He can’t go on like this. It _is_ getting worse, for reasons Dorian can’t quite fathom. They’re happier than they’ve ever been, and safer too – though of course that’s a relative term, especially here in the Imperium. Seth’s ordeal in the Deep Roads, harrowing as it was, was months ago, and until recently he hasn’t shown any sign that he still carried it with him. This is Seth, of course, the king of _bury it deep until the pressure is too much and it erupts like a volcano_ , but still. Dorian doesn’t think he’s been burying this, exactly. It’s more as if it’s been stalking him from the shadows, waiting for its moment to pounce.

 _Perhaps that’s it_ , he thinks. He remembers how it used to go back in their Inquisition days, when they’d return from a particularly difficult stint in the field. The moment they got back to Skyhold, everyone in the party would promptly fall sick. As if their bodies had been deferring it until they were safe and sound and able to deal with it. Seth never really had time to process the trauma of his experience in the Deep Roads. They still had a world to save, and Aerion Malkar to deal with. And once that was done, a wedding and a permanent move to the Tevinter Imperium. Perhaps it’s only now, precisely _because_ he’s safe and happy, that Seth’s subconscious is starting to process what he went through.

 _In which case_ , Dorian thinks, _what he needs is a distraction._ He has just the thing, if only he can muster enough support for it. Which means he’ll be spending the morning with Maevaris.

He cleans up, kisses his husband goodbye, and sets off for the senate, where he finds Mae holding court for the younger members of the Lucerni faction. She’s strewn magnificently across a velveteen settee, champagne in hand – with a splash of blood orange juice, in deference to the early hour. The senate complex is generously endowed with sumptuously appointed lounges like these, where magisters gather to drink and eat and engage in the _real_ work, which is invariably conducted behind the scenes. By the time a matter reaches the senate floor, it is decided. “Debates” are mere pageantry, a bit of peacocking for the peasants. It is in these informal chambers that the true negotiations take place. Horses traded, threats issued, bribes offered, et cetera. There are a few buttoned-up magisters who eschew this manner of doing business, but Dorian doesn’t trust anyone who wants to discuss matters of any importance without a drink in hand. Sober policy, by all means, but sober policymaking, never.

“Darling,” says Mae. “You have that come hither look in your eye. Do I take it you need my support for some pro-public scheme everyone will hate?”

“Everyone important, anyway.” Dorian explains what he has in mind. Mae laughs, of course, but that doesn’t mean she won’t help. She enjoys the challenge, and besides – she adores Seth.

“Let me see if I have this right. Not only do you wish to spend the city’s ever-dwindling funds on a public garden, you propose to use land the Magisterium is currently planning to sell, thereby further depriving the city of funds. Moreover, you would like an elf – not just any elf, mind, but _Inquisitor Lavellan_ – to be in charge of the project.” She laughs again, shaking her head and sipping her champagne. “I’ll say this for you, darling. You never lack for ambition.”

“One does hate to be boring.”

“Minrathous already has a public garden.”

“If by _garden_ you mean a shabby meadow full of weeds and dog shit and horribly ugly statues, then yes. But you’ve seen _my_ gardens, Maevaris, dear. You know what he’s capable of.”

Mae eyes him shrewdly. “This is going to cost you a great deal of political capital, you know.”

“Well, then, it’s a good thing I’m still flush, thanks to my celebrity of a husband.”

“In that case, you’d best grab yourself a drink, darling. It’s going to be a long day.”

It is, indeed, a very long day. By the time Dorian gets home, he’s exhausted and cranky and not all that pleased with how the thing turned out. He doesn’t particularly want to talk about it, but Seth is wondering _why_ he’s so cranky and also where he’s been all day and most of the evening, so Dorian tells him.

“You actually did it?” Seth asks breathlessly. “You got them to agree?”

“We have the votes, but…” Dorian winces. _This_ is the part he’s cranky about. “I’m afraid it comes with a catch.”

“Oh,” Seth says, slightly crestfallen.

“If you decide to do this, your involvement will have to remain strictly on the hush. The feeling was that if your role were known, the gardens would come to be associated with you too closely. That the common folk would start calling them the Lavellan Gardens, or some such. It wouldn’t do for it to appear as if the thing were some kind of _monument_ to the Inquisitor.”

“Is that all?” Seth’s face brightens again. “I’ll be allowed to design it so long as I don’t take the credit?”

“That… doesn’t bother you?”

“Of course not,” he laughs. “Dorian, there are monuments to my name all over Thedas. They could all disappear tomorrow and it wouldn’t bother me a lick. Quite the contrary. You _must_ know that.”

“You’re right,” Dorian says, and he feels a little silly now. “Of course you wouldn’t care about the credit. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I do,” Seth says with a knowing smile. “You wanted to _win_. All of it. No compromises.”

“Nonsense,” Dorian says. “Perhaps.”

Seth takes his face in his hands and kisses him softly. “Thank you, _vhen’an._ ”

“Don’t thank me yet. Wait until you hear what I had to promise Maevaris…”

They stay up late discussing ideas for the gardens, and when Seth finally drifts off, there’s a little smile on his face.

They both sleep like babies.


End file.
